By Tomorrow's Grace
by Kurobot
Summary: Desperate to end the war, the All Spark chooses life amongst its creations. All Spark!bot!Sam Eventual Bee/Sam
1. Prologue

**Title:** By Tomorrow's Grace  
**Author: **Kuronyo**  
Disclaimer: **Anything you recognize from the Transformers universe belongs to Hastak. I make no money writing this.**  
Summary: **Desperate to end the war, the All Spark chooses life amongst its creations. All Spark!bot!Sam Eventual Bee/Sam**  
Rating:** PG-13 (T)**  
Warnings: **The authoress is not afraid to tread every cliché known to fandom-kind. You have been warned. Also, general warnings for slash and interspecies romance.  
**Genres: **Movieverse AU, action/adventure, drama, romance  
**Pairings: **Sam/Bee

* * *

**By Tomorrow's Grace**

** Prologue**

* * *

The All Spark loved its children.

It knew and loved each spark it had ever sent out into life, knew them more intimately than they perhaps knew themselves. And though it mourned when some of these beloved creations were led astray by temptation, greed, and hatred, it remembered always their once-innocence and embraced them when they returned to his protection.

During the Golden Age, the All Spark had been kept in the highest spire of Iacon, in a high-security room overlooking the greatest city of Cybertron. The planet's greatest minds and thinkers had visited it, studied its inanimate cubical body and pondered over its powers and origins. The All Spark carefully kept its secrets from curious optics and prying scanners, for while the Cybertronians had proved themselves an intelligent and advanced race, they were yet unready for this kind of knowledge.

The intellectual sparks were not the only ones to pay him visits though. On occasion, a mech or bonded pair would request audience with the All Spark, bringing with them an empty sparkling shell. They would kneel in its presence and present the shell, vowing to care for and protect the young one as the All Spark itself would have done.

These were joyous moments indeed.

In those days, the All Spark had been happy. Its children lived and loved, protected each other and themselves while the Prime and the Lord High Protector watched over all as brothers and guardians.

Everything was as it should be, and the All Spark was content in the passive role it had taken in the lives of its children.

It did not know when the first stirrings of discontent began to fester. It did not know how brotherhood had soured into resentment and eventually hatred, nor why factions had suddenly been erected and enemy lines drawn.

The All Spark watched these events in mounting fear, and when the Youth Sectors were attacked and the infant sparks within slaughtered mercilessly, it cried out in agony as it gathered the young ones back to itself. The Cybertronians had reneged on their vow to protect the young sparks it had entrusted to their care, and for this unforgiveable sin, the All Spark would give them no more.

The war dragged on and the All Spark watched helplessly as its children massacred each other, lives cut short, allegiances formed in desperation and broken in betrayal. And somehow, somewhere, the All Spark itself had become an unwilling pawn in this conflict.

"_All Spark."_

_Megatron did not kneel—he never had. Littered all around the chamber were the recently deactivated shells of those who had tried, in vain, to stop him from reaching the All Spark. Standing here now, he spoke to the enormous artifact in a voice brimming with eagerness._

"_Give us the means, and we shall bring Cybertron to its rightful glory."_

When Megatron's interest in the All Spark became known, the war efforts pivoted to hiding the cube until it could be launched into the infinite darkness of deep space—the only way to keep it out of Megatron's reach. And it was in the final moments before the launch when the All Spark met the one called Bumblebee.

And the All Spark grieved to see its youngest creation as he was: a soldier, robbed of his youth by the violent times in which he lived.

"_You've lost today, Megatron."_

"_Then I shall see to it that YOU will never be able to speak of this day—ever!"_

Bumblebee's agonized scream was the last thing the All Spark heard as it was propelled into deep space.

As Cybertron, the world it had shaped and loved and filled with its creations, grew smaller in the distance, the All Spark's resolve hardened.

It would no longer stand by while the Cybertronians destroyed themselves, and if joining its creations as one of them was the only way to make a difference, then it would do so.

The All Spark would teach its creations what it meant to be brothers again.

* * *

_**This is dangerous, what you are planning.**_

"It is the only way," the All Spark pleaded. "They will destroy themselves completely if I do nothing."

_**A fitting punishment for their foolishness.**_

"Please, Creator. I cannot let that happen. It would destroy me."

_**You beg not for my permission, but for my blessing. You would do this even if I forbid it.**_

Its creator's voice was sad, and the All Spark knew how deeply worried Primus must be. "You created me to have free will," it reminded him gently.

_**That I did. **_There was a pause then, and the All Spark felt its creator smiling ruefully. _**Unlike the infant sparks you protect, you, my only Creation, have just one chance at life. I had hoped you might save that chance for a time of peace.**_

The All Spark was silent.

_**If you choose this path, your memories will be forfeit. That is the way with all births.**_

"But you will help me find my way?"

_**I will**_, came the solemn promise.

* * *

The planet he was to begin life on was a small, unassuming organic world, a fragile thing swathed in lush seas and blue skies. After vorns of aimless drifting through empty space, the All Spark had been drawn in by the gravitational pull of this system's star.

Compared to Cybertron, the life on this planet was in its infancy, yet already the beginnings of sentience had evolved, in a small, bipedal species struggling their way to the top of the food chain.

Here, the All Spark decided, he would shed his physical body and hide his consciousness in the bloodlines of this race. He would bide his time and wait to be born as one of these alien organics, so that when his Creations arrived, he would be ready to help them end this war in any way he could.

It would be difficult, for without his memories he would be ignorant and confused, but he trusted that his Creator would keep his word and guide him along.

The war would end, and one day when this was all over…perhaps he would return to Cybertron and make it whole once more.


	2. Chapter I: Ambush

**By Tomorrow's Grace**

**Chapter I: Ambush**

* * *

If anyone were to ask Sam how he was doing in the weeks following the events of Egypt, he would have put up a too-cheerful smile, lied through his teeth , and gritted out that he "just fine." And given the number of times he heard this question, it was something of an oddity that no one seemed to doubt his answer.

Perhaps he had just gotten good at lying. A display of his usual happy-go-lucky attitude and thoughtless rambling was enough to persuade most of the bots and humans who had asked after his welfare. Bumblebee and his parents were more difficult to convince but they too relented after a month or so. It wasn't that Sam was masochistic or anything, but he'd figured that everyone had their own problems to resolve in the aftermath of the Fallen. The Autobots had to arrange passing rites for Jetfire, not to mention Ratchet had his hands full with repairs and Optimus was given the arduous tasks of damage control and diplomacy with the human government. Lennox and the other soldiers were busy trying to negotiate the re-establishment of NEST and find a more tolerable replacement for Galloway. Mikaela had returned to work at her father's repair shop, and Leo was catching up with his courseload while basking in the attention of having had his face broadcasted worldwide (mostly the latter).

And physically speaking, Sam _was _doing alright. He'd recently gotten the cast taken off his hand, and the scrapes and burns from Egypt had healed over by now. He was sleeping eight hours a day (a rare thing for a college student) and eating well.

It was just the mental aspect that Sam wasn't too confident on.

_All Spark._

On the return trip to Diego Garcia, Doc Hatchet and the army medics had checked him up and down, inside and out with a barrage of medical equipment and Cybertronian scanners before declaring him clear of all side effects of the Cube's radiation.

He knew better.

* * *

_Sam wasn't sure if he was dreaming._

_The mirages around him were too coherent to be a dream, yet certainly too bizarre to be reality._

_He was…floating, for lack of a better word, suspended quite some distance above the floor, in a room with glass walls. Beyond the glass he caught a glimpse of a magnificent golden city, its skyline composed not of skyscrapers but strange metal spires that rotated and whirled into graceful leaf-like structures before folding in on themselves again._

_But he had no time to consider this, for his attention turned against his will towards something below him. He was surprised to find two figures kneeling on the floor, one of them cradling something to its chest._

_They were Cybertronians, he was sure, like Bumblebee and the others. Yet, these two looked different. Their bodies carried no trace of Earth vehicles, no car hood on the chest or door wings on the back or any other recognizable pieces of a familiar alt mode. No, these Cybertronians appeared as alien as the city outside._

"_All Spark," one of the mechs began, and Sam was so bewildered by this declaration he almost missed what he said next. "We come to you in the hopes that you may grant our request today."_

_Was the All Spark in this room somewhere? Sam tried to turn around to check, but it was as though he were welded in place; his body simply would not move._

"_We ask that you bless us with one of your own, a young spark to care for and guard." The mech fell silent, and his partner stepped forward to present the object he had been holding so protectively._

_If Sam had been puzzled before, he was absolutely dumbfounded now. He had never seen an…infant Cybertronian, for there was nothing else this strange offering could be. It was tiny, only a fraction the size of either of the two mechs, the proportions strangely childlike and the entire body a uniform bronze color. And yet, it was perfectly still, the optics dull in a way that Sam had come to associate with offlined or…deactivated mechs._

_Was it…__**dead**__…? The thought horrified him in ways he did not understand, but he sensed that this was not the case. No, not dead, simply…not alive yet._

"_We vow vigilance, that this young one may grow in safety under our protection." The words, though soft, carried an undeniable core of strength and conviction, and though he still hadn't the faintest idea what was going on, Sam felt something in himself nodding along in approval at the open sincerity of this pair's promises. _

"_We will love him as you do, and guide him in your stead. This we swear, unto the fading of our sparks."_

_Sam wasn't alone anymore. Something nudged his consciousness, warm and eager, brimming with joyful impatience. An imperceptible sadness tugged his heart, but there was fondness and pride too as he gathered the young one to himself before letting it go…_

When Sam looked up again, his clock read three hours later than it should have. He blinked, bewildered, and looked around the quiet interior of his dormitory. Where was Leo? Hadn't he been in the room just seconds ago, delivering a one-sided rant about what an ass their Astronomy professor was? The sky outside his window was darkened, though Sam could have sworn that he had just been squinting from the sunlight reflecting off his laptop.

It was with a heavy burden of dread that he realized what had happened.

Swallowing the knot of fear bubbling up in his throat, Sam slumped forward in his seat and dug the heel of one palm into his forehead. _Not again…_

Ever since his return from Egypt, he had been noticing…gaps in his memory. It had started small: he'd be leaving his dorm and suddenly find himself halfway across campus, or taking notes in class one moment only to find that the topic had skipped forward the next.

He never knew what happened during the missing time; it was as though someone had taken a giant eraser and wiped out little bits of his life. At first, this didn't worry him much. He'd figured anyone would be a little traumatized by Egypt and these lapses would disappear once things slowed down to something resembling normality.

They didn't. If anything, the episodes only came more frequently, and it had become increasingly difficult to attribute them to absent-mindedness.

This was the first time one had lasted _three hours_ though. Sam's insides squirmed uncomfortably, panic churning his stomach like a biting, wriggling rat. Three hours gone from his memory, just like that. Anything could have happened in three hours. He could have stripped off his clothes and gone streaking down the girls' hall for all he knew.

…he _hoped_ that wasn't what happened.

A sudden IM chime from his laptop drew his attention, and Sam gladly smothered this train of thought to check the message.

_BitchinCamaro: Sam?_

Cool relief wrapped around Sam's thudding heart, and he could not help the slight smile uncurling around his mouth. Like the other Autobots, Bumblebee had his share of responsibilities after Egypt and so he was often gone from Sam's side, called away for duty for days at a time. Yet he never failed to check up on his charge, wherever he might be.

_Ladiesman217: i'm here bee_

_BitchinCamaro: Are you well?_

_Ladiesman217: yeah, what about you?_

_BitchinCamaro: I am fine, Sam. I will be back tomorrow morning, noon at the latest._

The panic-rat hiding in his belly uncoiled a little. Bumblebee would be back soon, and even if his guardian knew nothing of these memory lapses, there was a deep certainty that nothing terrible could happen as long as Bumblebee was near.

_Ladiesman217: that's great bee_

_BitchinCamaro: This will be the last scheduled call for the rest of the month. I should be able to remain with you on campus until your academic recess._

Sam could have kissed the screen. Winter Break was in late December—that left him the better part of a month and the holidays to spend with Bumblebee. Luckily for Sam, he was spared the humiliation of gushing forth his feelings like a sappy girl by the timely beeping of his phone.

He fished it out of his bag and flipped through the buttons.

_From: Leo  
found a great house party south of state st. u coming?  
9:37P Fri Dec04_

Sam paused. He hadn't been to any parties since that disastrous frat party his first night at college, and Leo had seemed perfectly content going solo tonight.

Almost as if sensing his hesitation, the phone buzzed again in his hand.

_From: Leo__  
come on loosen up. its friday night  
9:39P Fri Dec04_

Two texts in as many minutes…either the party must be really wild, or Leo was having an awkward moment and needed backup.

He looked at the computer screen, where Bumblebee's last message still lingered in the IM window, then back at the phone. He could hang around in his dorm for the rest of the night worrying about the state of his mental health…or he could go out and be a normal college kid.

It wasn't a difficult decision.

_Ladiesman217: bee, i'm heading out. leo wants me at some party_

Was it Sam's imagination, or did the slight pause before Bumblebee's response seem to convey the faintest hint of disappointment?

_BitchinCamaro: Stay safe, Sam. I'll be there in the morning._

_Ladiesman217: night bee_

It was with a small measure of guilt that Sam closed the lid of his laptop, though he couldn't pinpoint why and brushed the feeling away impatiently. He'd go out tonight and have some fun (or at least rescue Leo from whatever social predicament he'd gotten into), come back for bed and when he woke up in the morning Bumblebee would be sitting in the parking lot and all would be well.

Heart feeling decidedly lighter, Sam grabbed a coat off the rug and headed for the door.

* * *

Ten minutes later, Sam was huddled under the streetlight at the corner of State Street, pulling his jacket tighter around himself and punching in Leo's speed dial on his mobile.

A moment of silence, and then the call switched over to his roommate's automated message system. Sam scowled; hadn't he _just_ been texting him? Maybe Leo had gotten himself out of whatever awkward situation he had been in and didn't need Sam anymore.

Well, screw that. He'd finally gotten out of the dorm and he was going, whether Leo wanted him there or not. Just as he began nursing irritated thoughts at his errant friend, the phone beeped. Sam flipped it open eagerly.

_From: Leo  
its down on s. university keep walking like 10 mins  
9:50P Fri Dec04_

How did Leo know where he was? Sam shrugged internally and obediently turned down the smaller side street. There were plenty of student houses here, although most had darkened windows and were fairly quiet.

Several minutes later Sam was sure he'd taken a wrong turn. He didn't recognize the area, having had little reason to venture this far from Central Campus before. In fact, he was pretty sure he was almost off campus altogether. He'd passed the last of the student-loan housing buildings some distance back, and now even the streetlights were few and far between.

A thread of apprehension crept up his back, followed by irritation. Why didn't Leo just give him an address or building number?

He texted this to Leo, who responded surprisingly quickly.

_From: Leo  
sorry dude i dunno the address its like another two blocks tho  
10:03P Fri Dec04_

Sam sighed, pocketed the phone, and continued forward. The night was deadly still, and he was surprised by the utter lack of…noise he'd come to associate with a college campus. Perhaps the silence was what was setting him on edge, because his ears were pricked, his palms sweaty despite the chill, and his heart thudding a touch too quickly in his chest. In the darkness his footsteps fell like echoing thuds. The apprehension had become something else now, something more closely resembling fea—

_Turn back turn back turn back_

Something wasn't right. Sam stopped in his tracks, heart rate shooting up on some deep primitive instinct. He fumbled his phone out and read the last two messages (_its down on s. university keep walking like 10 mins…i dunno the address its like another two blocks tho_). How did Leo know how much further he had to go? The panic-rat was back in all its fury, twisting his stomach up in knots.

_Keep walking…another two blocks…keep walking…_

"Oh no. Oh no no nononono…"

Hadn't he learned this lesson after Alice? Hadn't he learned that the enemy could impersonate humans down to the very last detail, never mind something so simple as hacking his roommate's cell phone and sending convincingly teenager text messages?

_I'm going to kill you, boy, slowly, painfully._

Something stirred in the darkness, a mechanical clicking sound.

Sam fled.

* * *

When Bumblebee rolled into the parking lot of Sam's dormitory building that morning, his chronometer read 9:30 AM. Since it was a Saturday, he didn't expect Sam to be awake until 11:00 at least, as was the boy's habit.

Two hours later, there was still no sign of Sam, even though the building was now full of students milling about and swiping in their cards at the dining hall. Bumblebee bounced a little on his shocks impatiently before setting off the obnoxious series of car alarms that never failed to get his boy's attention.

It was only when Leo came out and blearily asked if he knew where Sam was that Bumblebee realized something had gone terribly wrong.


	3. Chapter II: Revive

**By Tomorrow's Grace**

**Chapter II: Revive**

* * *

The night had gone from bad to one of the worst of Sam's life.

Granted, he supposed a few others might have compared—the day Megatron had impaled Optimus through the spark came to mind—but in the wake of his current situation, Sam was hard pressed to call any shots. Currently, he had another issue demanding his attention.

"Hey hey, let's not get too hasty here, alright? You, me, I'm sure we got a lot in common, maybe we should, you know, both calm down a little, get to—"

Sam didn't suppose the robo-bird circling him quite agreed with this sentiment, as it merely looked over at him coolly and responded with a rather menacing half-mechanical-half-feral squawk, flaring the odd spiky appendages lining its neck in an unmistakable show of aggression.

"…alright, you want me to shut up, I guess? I'll shut up." Sam backed up a little until he was met with the wall, hands raised in a defensive gesture of surrender.

The bird Decepticon, roughly his height but probably a hundred times his weight and strength, leveled him with a calculating stare, then turned his back as though to dismiss Sam as something unworthy of his attention.

Slowly, the exhausted boy sank into a sitting position. The only exit was at the other end of the hangar, a football stadium's length away, and Sam had no delusions as to which of them would win in a foot race. He cast a discrete look at the Decepticon's cruelly curved talons and sharp beak, serrated like a saw. No, he would rather not take his chances.

It wasn't as though he had anyplace to run either. The jet Decepticon who had transported them here was no doubt waiting somewhere outside, and given the amount of time they'd been flying, he could be anywhere in the country—heck, the continent, even.

Pulling his hoodie tighter to himself, he tried to still the tremors wracking his body, ones that he couldn't blame on the chilly night air alone.

Sam wasn't stupid. He knew exactly how dire his situation was.

He was lost, held captive by two Decepticons and awaiting more to arrive. No one knew where he was, or even that he was missing. Leo wouldn't return to the dorm until the early hours of the morning if at all, and even then he could be too tired or intoxicated to notice Sam's absence. Bumblebee wasn't expected to arrive until morning, and Mikaela and his parents had no reason to suspect anything might be amiss.

As to why he was here…a terrible lead weight settled in his stomach as he contemplated that question. Barring the fact that the Decepticons needed no reason to despise humans, Sam personally had caused more than his fair share of trouble for their faction. They could want him for any number of things: ransom, leverage…the possibility of simple vengeance by way of torture or death had not escaped his mind either.

The panic-rat squirmed like a living thing inside him. A shuddery breath left his lungs, fear constricting his chest in an icy, vise-like grip. _I should have stayed in my dorm and moped all night_, he thought bitterly.

A deafening roar of engines approached their location and the ground trembled as the sound cut off into silence. Sam rose to his feet warily, feeling almost numb with apprehension as the drum in his chest quickened in a steady crescendo.

The hangar doors flew off their hinges in a horrible shriek of shredding metal. Even as huge as they were, they were just barely high enough to admit the creatures now entering. Megatron was every bit as huge and terrifying as Sam remembered him, all sharp planes and unforgiving edges in cold silver, red optics glinting in the dim lighting. Trailing behind him were two almost identical jets, and half a dozen other mechs.

Suddenly, the hangar didn't seem so massively empty heavy footstep reverberated through the floor and deep in Sam's chest, and the boy unconsciously pressed himself closer to his wall, wishing—praying perhaps, that the wall might just open and swallow him up. Anything to hide him from those terrifying red optics, anything at all—

"Are you proud of your accomplishments, fleshbag?" Megatron's voice was laced with venom, the words low and crooning, mocking him in his fear. "Few of your kind have been such nuisances to us, after all."

_Please God, please please please I don't want to die._ Somewhere in the back of his mind, a steady mantra had begun, a prayer for someone—anyone—to come rushing in, guns blazing to defend him. Just like the last time he'd been trapped. He'd been so sure he was going to die, and then Optimus and Bumblebee had come crashing in at the last minute. Surely they'd do it again…wouldn't they?

The bird Decepticon had retreated, jumping on and taking shelter in one of the larger mech's chassis. Megatron continued, and Sam tried not to look at the cruel talon-like fingers hanging at the leader's side.

"We don't forget those that cross us. I know your species' kind. Resistance leads by example; it's better to squash such ideas before they can propagate. You will learn that soon enough." A terrifying smile twisted the plates of Megatron's face, and Sam felt his stomach drop. "Just as your procreators and mate already have."

Time slowed and ground to a jolting halt.

"No…"

"You would have done well to keep out of this conflict, fleshbag."

A splotch of color on Megatron's otherwise monochrome armor, out of place and oddly incongruous, drew Sam's eye. It was a rusty red-brown color, but once it might have been—

"_No!_" All the fear of his situation evaporated in an instant, replaced by a mind-numbing sensation that the world had stopped turning, that fate itself had frozen in its tracks. Everything around him blurred, the floor tilted—Sam fell onto hands and knees, reeling from this terrible, terrible _lie_.

His parents, Mikaela—it couldn't be—it was utterly impossible! It was a lie, Sam thought. It had to be. They were _Decepticons_, after all, and lying was what they did best. It was a lie, because the world couldn't possibly go this wrong. It simply wasn't possible that Mikaela—beautiful, brassy Mikaela—might be—

Sam lifted his head, but it wasn't fear twisting his face this time. He wasn't even aware that he was moving until he'd hit Megatron's foot, pounding uselessly at the heavy armor, heedless of the pain in his fists. He was screaming something, nothing coherent, just maddened shrieks of rage and grief and aching despair. Megatron's optics narrowed in cruel mirth, until Sam's hand reached through a tiny gap between plating and came away with a handful of delicate looking wires.

Retribution was swift and merciless.

Suddenly Sam was airborne, and he hadn't even the time to scream before the breath was knocked out of him as he impacted something hard. Cold metal fingers closed around him, lifting him high up against the wall.

"Disgusting _insect_."

And then white pain split across his torso. A hoarse, strangled scream tore loose from his throat. Sam squirmed, kicking and flailing, but there was nothing but open air beneath his feet. Something hot, wet, and smelling of copper poured down his sides, sticking his clothes to his skin as the struggles lit his nerves alight.

Slowly, he opened his eyes.

Megatron was almost at eye-level, strangely enough. Sam dared to look down, and his stomach lurched. The ground had to be at least twenty feet below him, and the only thing keeping him up was…

_Oh God._

Two lengths of metal rebar were impaled under each shoulder, supporting all his weight. Dark red blood oozed lazily from the wounds, and Sam almost wretched from the heavy smell of his own life fluids.

The pain was atrocious, worse than anything he'd ever experienced in his short life. He was pretty sure _dying_ in Egypt hadn't been this painful. It burned like the most caustic acid, biting and cutting and he was sure he might just go mad from it. But just as potent was an entirely different pain, so sharp and pungent in his chest it was almost physical.

_Mikaela…_When was the last time he'd seen her? Two weeks—three, perhaps? And his parents…was that their blood on Megatron's armor?

_Why them?_ Why—they hadn't done anything. He could understand why the Decepticons might want him dead, but them? They'd been innocent, guilty of nothing other than their association with him.

He didn't know he'd been screaming these questions out loud until Megatron chuckled. The Decepticon's answer lit Sam's blood alight in helpless rage.

"Because, insect, _we can_."

A few of the other Decepticons had stepped closer by now, a predatory anticipation in their stance and optics. Megatron turned his back on Sam dismissively to address them.

"Make him scream, make it long. I want this to be a lesson the Autobots won't forget."

* * *

Back on base, more bad news was awaiting Bumblebee.

"Mikaela…is gone?"

As he had countless times before in this accursed war, Optimus prayed for strength. "Sam's procreators as well."

Bumblebee's expression of utter despair could have broken Optimus, but the Prime steeled himself for the final blow.

"Their bodies were found early this morning."

The wail from his scout's half-repaired vocalizer nearly undid him. He cycled a tired breath through his intakes, knowing his next words would sound hollow but he had nothing else to offer. "I'm sorry, Bumblebee."

"…how?" When no answer was forthcoming, Bumblebee shook his head as though in denial. "We will find Sam, though."

Optimus had no doubt they would find Sam. In a way, his foes were predictable. The Decepticons would no doubt want to flaunt this victory by leaving behind the evidence of their vengeance to be found. It was an age-old tactic to crush Autobot morale, and a familiar anger rose up within him to remember the many comrades they'd lost over the vorns in this manner. And now Sam, the boy who he had died for and who had died for him in return, had disappeared, and Optimus dreaded to consider how they might find him.

Bumblebee was silent, but it was an expectant silence, tense with the unspoken plea for Optimus to agree with him. _Tell me he'll be safe, Optimus_, the scout seemed to be begging with his optics. _Tell me we'll find him alive._

But Optimus couldn't bear to be the deliverer of false hope, not when one probability calculation after another pointed towards the same terrible outcome. He looked to Bumblebee, trying not to imagine the young scout coming apart when that likelihood became cold reality, and at last settled for the only truth he could afford.

"We will do all we can."

* * *

_The mech was a tall, stately figure, regal in his bearing and commanding an air of quiet strength. It filled him with a fond pride to see the magnificent creature this particular spark had become, a leader and a protector in his own right. He wished he could convey something of his thoughts to the mech, but alas, his current embodiment was incapable of such a thing._

_But the mech was not here for the purpose of a happy reunion, that much was clear. The All Spark was not blind to the escalation of events in the outside world, events that filled him with dread and fear for his creations._

_In the quiet sanctity of the All Spark's chamber, the visitor lowered himself to his knees, proud head bowed in deference and shoulders slumping imperceptibly as though burdened by the entire weight of Cybertron. "Kaon is mobilizing as I speak," the mech began. "Sentinel has done his best to organize the city's defenses, but they will not be enough." He shook his head tiredly, optics shuttering in a brief but bitter gesture of despair. "These mechs are civilians, not warriors. They know nothing of warfare and fighting. All Spark…I fear they all face certain termination." _

_Come tomorrow, so many of his creations would be sent back to him before their time. The thought filled him with a wrenching grief, but as always, he could do nothing but watch._

"_What must I do?" The mech gazed up at the cube, features steady but wrought with uncertainty, and the All Spark could feel the turmoil in his spark as surely as if it were his own. "I cannot allow the city to fall, but how can I send so many mechs to their deaths?"_

_There was no answering voice. A moment passed in silence, and then another. At last, the mech sighed and rose to his full height again; whatever he had been seeking would not be found here. _

_With one last glance at the inanimate, silent cube, he turned back the way he'd come, back towards his duties and a war that threatened to consume his entire world. "I would ask that you protect us all," he murmured. "But are you even listening?"_

_The All Spark watched him leave sadly, and these were the words he would have said, if only he'd had a voice to speak them with:_

_**I am not one to let my creations fall, Optimus Prime. 'Til all are one.**_

* * *

For the first time, Sam wished his memory lapse had lasted longer. But reality soon cleared away the last threads of that dream-like state with a merciless onslaught of agony. How long had it been? Sam wasn't sure, and at this point it hardly mattered beyond a vague inane curiosity in the back of his mind. Time hardly existed to him now. He had stopped screaming at some point, his throat raw and burning as though someone had scraped sandpaper against the inside.

"What's the matter, fleshbag? Disappointed that your Autobots didn't come for you?"

Megatron's voice was grating, but had an odd quality of distance to it, as though he was speaking from a mile away and through a wall of cotton. Though Sam could not see him, he could _feel _the monster's presence a scant few inches from his face. A moment later, the Decepticon lord retreated to a more manageable distance, seemingly content with the boy's silence.

"Soundwave, contact the Autobots and send them our coordinates. We are finished here, Decepticons."

Sam's entire world was pain. An agonizing, relentless fire danced across his body, nerves alight and screaming for relief. He supposed it was a mercy that he was blinded—he did not think he could bear to see himself right now.

He barely had the presence of mind to recognize the sound of transformations for what they were, and almost sobbed with relief when the rumbling booms of jets taking off met his ears. Finally—finally, it was over.

It was so, so quiet. The only sound in the hangar was his own rattling breaths and the faint drip of fluids flowing down his body to land somewhere below him. A cool draft cut through his thin clothes, chilling him to the bone. He did not have even the strength to shiver.

There was no hope for him, Sam knew. Though it was hard to ascertain the amount of damage done to his body, he knew it had to be severe, and the Autobots would certainly not arrive in time to save him. He wasn't sure he wanted them to.

It was better this way, wasn't it? His parents were gone—Mikaela was gone, and soon he'd be joining them. Dying was easier than living on without them.

It was hard to think straight through the pain, but some higher power must have heard his prayers because it was fading into blessed numbness. His head felt light, and Sam closed his ruined eyes in relief.

He hadn't wanted to die like this, pinned up in a grotesque display like some freakish lab dissection. And Bumblebee…he could only hope the others didn't allow his guardian to see his body. Bumblebee was going to blame himself for this, Sam thought miserably.

A minute dragged by, and then another.

He was fading now…breaths coming slow and shallow, heart struggling to keep flowing what little blood he had left. It was painful, suffocating, and Sam wondered why it was taking so long to _just die already_.

And then the world seemed to close in on itself, and his awareness faded, seemingly detaching itself from his shattered body. And then—there was no sight, no sound, no _pain_…it was darkness so complete it should have been terrifying, but Sam could only shudder in desperate, aching relief. Something warm and terribly familiar wrapped itself around him, cradling him like a bereaved parent, and Sam was struck by the sudden impression that _someone_ was grieving.

_**My Creation…**_

Sam wasn't sure who had spoken, but he was aching in a way that went so much deeper than physical pain, and wanted nothing more than to sink into oblivion. "_Just let me sleep_," he pleaded. "_Please._"

_**How I wish I could. I would take you from this and never let you know pain again.**_

Who was this? Despite his exhaustion, Sam couldn't help but wonder. He sounded so…terribly sad, as though everything he held dear had just been cut down right before him.

_**But I cannot, my Creation. You will be most angry with me if I prevent you from finishing this task.**_

What was he talking about? Sam couldn't recall any task he had left to do. He'd saved the world—twice. Wasn't that enough for one lifetime?

"_Who are you?_" Sam wanted to know. "_How do you know me?_"

There was a pause, and then the other spoke, gently as though addressing a small child. _**You would not understand even if I were to tell you.**_

Again, there was a sense of sorrow, a familiarity—as though Sam _should_ know this person, but no amount of wracking his brain could make the memories come forth. A strange feeling of regret bloomed in his heart, as though he had lost something terribly important yet could not mourn nor even remember it. "_I…I'm sorry_," he offered.

_**You will know me again one day. **_That comfortable presence covered him like a warm embrace, and Sam eased himself closer, inexplicably soothed. It was warmth and tenderness he could scarcely remember, and Sam clung to it like a small child to its mother's arms. Whoever this voice was, it didn't really matter, did it? He was safe here, he knew. Here, there were no Decepticons, no burning red optics, no cruel cutting metal nor mocking taunts.

_**Creation, you cannot stay here.**_

A thread of panic worked its way to the surface of Sam's composure; the illusion of security splintered, and the boy shuddered. "_Why not?_" He demanded. "_I'm so tired. Can't I rest?_"

_**It is not your time.**_

Sam whimpered.

_**Once, you asked that I guide you when you lose your way. **_Sam didn't remember having ever said such a thing._**Your human body is beyond saving, but I shall remake you as you would have been had you been born as one of your creations.**_

"_Don't make me go back…_" Sam pleaded.

_**Next we meet, perhaps you will understand why.**_

And then the darkness lifted, and Sam was being wrenched away from that comfortable warmth and its protective presence. He flailed, near frantic with fear and dread, but something curled around him briefly before letting go as though in a farewell embrace.

_**Your Autobots are coming.**_

And then Sam was alone.

_CORE PROCESSORS…online  
PRIMARY FIREWALLS UPLOADING…100%  
PRIMARY SENSOR NET…online_

He could not see, he could not hear. Something was wild with panic in his chest—it was not a heart, but something that burned and flared in time with his chaotic emotions.

_WEAPONS SYSTEMS…ERROR  
MEMORY CACHE…ERROR  
MOTOR FUNCTIONS…35%  
MOTOR FUNCTIONS…75%  
MOTOR FUNCTIONS…100%_

What was happening? Where was he, who was he, why couldn't he open his eyes or move—? Things were shifting inside his body, clicking into place and preparing for something Sam couldn't understand. Fear consumed his mind as he fought and suddenly, alien limbs jerked in response to his distress. Sam froze in shock, momentarily distracted from the lines of symbols scrolling across his vision.

_SECONDARY SENSOR NET…online  
ALL SYSTEMS ONLINE  
CHRONOMETER RECORD TIME OF ACTIVATION: 06:31 12/18/09_

In the darkness of an abandoned hangar, blue optics flickered to life.


	4. Chapter III: A Life for a Life

**By Tomorrow's Grace**

** Chapter III: A Life for a Life  
**

* * *

The message from Soundwave was simple and brief. True to the Decepticon Communications Officer's stoic nature, it was devoid of both taunts and gloats, containing only a set of coordinates for them to follow.

With NEST still disbanded, it took longer than it should have to secure a carrier craft to transport the Autobots to the designated location. Bumblebee had been near frantic with worried rage over the lost time, and the flight there was spent in tense, hair-trigger silence.

And though no one dared to say it out loud, especially in front of the yellow scoutbot, they were all thinking the same terrible thing. It wouldn't really matter how long they took in finding Sam, not at this point. It was more than likely that the Decepticons had already cleared the area, and the boy was beyond even Primus' help by now.

As the shuttle neared their destination, Optimus stood to face his Autobots.

"Our objective is to retrieve Sam—nothing else. Today is not about retribution—" He eyed Ironhide as he said this, and the gruff warrior made a soft but acknowledging rumble at the pointed hint. "We will proceed with caution. The Decepticons know some of us may be emotionally compromised, but we cannot afford to be careless."

If Bumblebee knew this last bit was directed at him, he made no sign of it. The yellow mech was tense as a coiled spring, agitation radiating from every taut line of his frame. Optimus looked for a moment as though he meant to address the young scout, but seemed to think better of it and said nothing.

The place they had landed was buffered from the closest human civilizations by miles of deserted country land in all directions, and was only a short distance away from Soundwave's coordinates. Optimus assigned Sideswipe and the twins to safeguard their transport craft, and the rest of the Autobots began for the hangar waiting in the distance.

He and Bumblebee were to search for Sam while the others kept on guard for possible lingering Decepticons, but in the end it was Ratchet who found the boy's remains.

_Optimus_, the medic spoke through a private channel. _Bumblebee shouldn't have to see this._

And from that single ominous request, Optimus knew exactly what had become of the boy.

_No, Sam…_

_Pit-spawned Decepticons!_ Ironhide's furious voice joined the communications stream, and Optimus could almost see the way he must be spinning his cannons restlessly, helpless to demonstrate his rage on an absent enemy. _Next time I see those cowardly—_

Optimus broke the connection, spark heavy enough to drop through his fuel tank. He cast a sideways glance at Bumblebee not too far away and wondered how to break the news to his scout.

Bumblebee turned then, meeting his gaze, and there must have been something telling in his expression because the younger mech was immediately demanding, "Where is Sam?"

Vorns of war and loss had not endowed Optimus with the words for this task—he faltered, and in that single instant of hesitation, Bumblebee understood.

"Bumblebee, wait!" Optimus made a grab for him, but the mech slipped through his fingers with surprising speed and tore for the hangar door. Inside, he could hear his comrades trying to restrain the frantic mech, Ratchet's voice pleading with him not to look—and then a haunting shriek from Bumblebee's still-healing vocalizer as the protests of the others died into terrible silence.

When Optimus arrived in the doorway of the hangar, it was to bear witness to a scene that would haunt his memory circuits for vorns to come. It took him a moment to recognize the strange red mass pinned spread-eagled on the wall for what it was, but when he did, cold anger immersed his spark.

The Decepticons had not let Sam die without suffering, nor had they spared his body the dignity he deserved.

Ratchet, Ironhide, and Jolt stood at a fair distance from the scene, and though they tried to hide it, their revulsion at the display was plain to see. Optimus couldn't blame them—the carnage, though of alien organic flesh and blood, was no less _real_ and disturbing than crushed armor and leaking fuel lines—but when his gaze turned to Bumblebee, his spark ached in sympathy for the young mech.

There was no revulsion in Bumblebee's defeated countenance, no flinch in his arm as he brushed a finger against the body with aching gentleness, nor disgust for the tragic _frailty_ of human life. There was only a quiet mourning running more deeply than any of them could know, manifested in every line of his frame—from the listless droop of his doorwings to the dimness of his optics…and a soft, subsonic wail that told more of his grief than could be said in a thousand words.

Optimus shuttered his optics and turned his back, offering Bumblebee what little privacy they could afford. It was not the first time he had watched a comrade mourn over a fallen friend in this war, nor would it be the last…but as he listened to his scout's desolate cries, he could not help wondering how he'd ever been strong enough to bear it even once.

* * *

They removed Sam's body from its grotesque crucifixion and wrapped it in a clean tarp with all the grace and dignity they would have shown a fellow Autobot.

No words were exchanged as they walked back to the carrier craft. There was no need to explain to Sideswipe and the twins what had transpired—one glance at the little bundle in Bumblebee's arms told them all they needed to know.

The boarding ramp was just beginning to retract when it happened—a blip on his scanners drew Optimus from his dark thoughts. His intakes stuttered for a moment as he waited, hoping against hope that it was just a glitch in his sensors, a ghost perception in his processor. He couldn't stand the thought of having to deal with a Decepticon right now—to look one of the mechs responsible for Sam's death in the optics and have the strength _not_ to act in vengeance.

The anomaly in his scanners flashed again, and this time Optimus feared for Bumblebee. Perhaps the mech hadn't noticed—

"There's a Decepticon down there."

Bumblebee's tone was hard, and there was something frightening in how evenly he voiced the observation.

They all looked at him, and if the scout saw the pitying wariness in their expressions, he didn't seem to care.

"Hey dere Bumblebee, maybe we should jist head back ta base 'n—"

Mudflap's voice died in his throat as he Bumblebee pinned him with the full intensity of his glare.

"Optimus," the scout continued with forced calmness. "Permission to investigate?"

"Denied."

Bumblebee needed closure, but vengeance was not the way to reach it. Optimus understood the desperate, aching craving for _justice_ to be served, to make the ones responsible pay for their crimes. He understood fury and grief throbbing like an open wound and the certainty that retribution would restore order to a world gone mad, but just as strong was his conviction that revenge was a poison that would taint a mech's mind and spark. He would not let Bumblebee fall to that.

Bumblebee's hands curled into tight fists of iron. "Just let me ask him _why_."

"Optimus," Jolt spoke up. "This is just one lone Decepticon. It would be strategically advantageous to procure a hostage for future negotiations."

Jolt, at least, was not suffering from warped emotional judgment. Optimus could see the logic in his assessment—one Decepticon under their control was one less Decepticon to worry about roaming free on a planet of defenseless humans and on the battlefield, and they had the advantage of numbers if they were to confront him. If it was a mech of any importance, he could be a potentially valuable prisoner.

"We will go."

Bumblebee looked up in anticipation, but Optimus was quick to quash the idea before it had time to gain any momentum in his processor.

"Bumblebee, you will stay on the craft with Sideswipe, Mudflap, and Skids. The rest of you, accompany me."

Jerking back as though stung, the yellow mech turned his gaze to the floor stiffly but did not protest. Optimus spared him a final glance before they descended from the ramp. The scout's doorwings were hitched high in agitation, his frame taut with tension in every cable and hydraulic, and he would not meet anyone's optics. He was like a coiled spring strung to the breaking point, a ticking bomb on a hair-trigger detonation switch.

Optimus turned; he did not envy any Decepticons who might be near when Bumblebee's mask of control shattered.

* * *

The readings on the rogue Decepticon did not change as they approached its location. It neither moved nor tried to hide, and this prompted Ironhide to comment lowly on suspicion of a trap or ambush.

The unknown mech was inside the hangar, and as they passed the place where Sam's blood still glistened on the wall and floor, Optimus wondered how they could have missed it before…if they had at all.

"Decepticon," Optimus announced as they spread out around a large expanse of discarded construction material. "You are surrounded and outnumbered. Surrender peacefully and you will not be harmed."

A sharp metallic clatter from somewhere inside the mess fell across their audios, and Ironhide spun his cannons as an iron bearing rolled to a stop in front of his pedes.

Echoes faded into silence, and after several seconds, Optimus opened his mouth to reiterate his warning—

A white shape, smaller than any of them, streaked into the open, so fast they had no chance to scan the enemy. Ironhide fired his cannons reflexively with a deafening _boom_ of strobe-white light. Ratchet shouted something none of them caught, and Jolt spun on his feet, electro whips crackling.

When the mech reemerged, unharmed but speeding wildly, Optimus was ready. He'd drawn his rifle, ready to fire a disabling shot, but his target careened out of line, crashing to the floor in a heap of white armor. Optimus was momentarily bewildered by the unusual display as the mech struggled, clawing at the ground in a panic and seemingly _unable _to make his limbs obey.

Ratchet and Jolt were closest and quickly moved to close in on him. Jolt reared back and flung out his whips—they snapped around the Decepticon's body with a sharp _crack_, immobilizing the flailing frame. The mech began screaming then, emitting terrible shrieks of blind terror and pain. His body arched like a live wire, kicking and writhing on the ground and when Optimus caught glimpse of his optics, panic-laden and shockingly _blue_, he felt as though he'd been punched in the chest.

"Wait!" Ratchet's voice held a note of strangled confusion. "Jolt, release him, I don't think he's—"

"Fragger!" Ironhide roared. "Ratchet, what the _Pit_ are you—"

The wall exploded in a cascade of cement and grit. A yellow blur barreled through the chaos, skidding to a near halt with his battle mask drawn and one hand replaced with a plasma cannon.

"Bumblebee!"

Optimus's processors were spinning. Bumblebee had disobeyed him, and now the situation was quickly escalating into something explosive.

In the confusion and momentary distraction, Jolt's grip loosened, and the Decepticon tore free with a final cry and made a mad dash for freedom.

He only made it a few meters before Bumblebee overtook him. The scout threw him to the floor in a flying hurtle, pinning the smaller mech under his superior weight with one hand wrapped around the delicate throat components. The white Decepticon strained and bucked, fighting with all his strength and screaming again as Bumblebee's cannon began to hum near his head. Behind them, he could hear Ratchet's shouts and Optimus's booming voice trying to regain control of the situation, but Bumblebee's mind was consumed in a white-hot sea of fury.

Sam had been taken, and no force on this planet or the next would protect those responsible from feeling everything they had inflicted upon him.

He lowered the charging cannon. At point blank range, the blast would tear this Decepticon's head clean off his shoulders—

Hands closed around his torso and the next thing Bumblebee knew, he was being pulled forcibly off the enemy.

"BUMBLEBEE, _STAND DOWN_!"

Ironhide had him in a fierce tackle. The black mech grunted as Bumblebee twisted and fought in his grip; it was like trying to hold down a tornado.

Ratchet and Optimus were more concerned with the unknown mech. Freed from his attacker, he shot to his feet and skittered away. But there was no place to hide; to his back was the hangar wall, which he pressed himself against. Optimus watched, puzzled by the strange way the mech moved—clumsy and faltering, as if he had sustained severe damage to his motor relays, though this as clearly not the case. Cornered with no route to escape, the odd creature collapsed into a shivering heap and drew himself together. They approached cautiously, and with the mech finally in a state of standstill, they got their first good look at him.

He was small, perhaps a foot or two shorter than Bumblebee, and had nowhere near the same bulk. From the slender build to the long digitigraded legs and sturdy tail, it was clear that every line of his frame had been designed for _speed_. The face was shielded by a forward sloping mask, but bright blue optics glowed from beneath it, and most strikingly of all, the mech was painted from head to toe in sheer white.

Optimus stepped forward, finally realizing what Ratchet had discovered before any of them.

Bumblebee's struggles had lessened, and at length, Ironhide released him with a warning growl. Ratchet scowled as the two approached with their weapons at the ready.

"Put those cannons away, slaggers."

Ironhide stared at him incredulously, an expression mirrored closely by Bumblebee. "Ratchet, what—"

"He's not a Decepticon, is he?"

Their disbelieving looks shifted to Jolt now, and they saw that the blue mech had coiled up his whips with the oddest expression of regret on his faceplates.

"If you wouldn't mind explaining _that_ idea, I'd like to know what's gotten into the both of you," Ironhide growled.

"Use your processor to think for once, instead of your cannons," the medic snapped. "Look at him, scan his frequencies—do you see _any_ mark of Decepticon allegiance?"

There was a pause as they grudgingly obeyed, and then Ironhide snorted. "That doesn't mean much, Ratchet. Plenty of Decepticons encrypt their frequencies."

Optimus could understand Ironhide's disbelief. The war was all they had known for countless vorns, and for so long, the prevailing ideology that had kept them alive to this day was '_If he's not one of us, he's one of them_.' It was easy to simply begin regarding any unfamiliar mech as a potential Decepticon.

But the more he watched this strange creature, the more convinced Optimus was that Ratchet was right. Any Decepticon would have fought back under an assault like that, yet this mech hadn't so much as drawn his weapons, or even raised a hand against them.

And just as Ratchet said, the subtle signature frequencies brushing against Optimus's sensors were clear of any identifying signs of allegiance, but that was not what prompted the bewildered hitch in his intakes.

Rather, it was the lightness of his energy signals, the faint, evanescent frequencies so far removed from the brusque solidity of his soldiers and enemies that they barely registered across his sensor net. It was the blatant expression of vulnerability and helplessness, and the certainty that should he choose, Optimus could extinguish this spark with his bare hands…or shield it from the world.

With a start, Optimus realized just what was so _different _about the stranger.

This mech was…_young_.

Having been surrounded by hardened soldiers for so many vorns, he had almost forgotten what a fledgling spark felt like. Looking at the youngling cowering before them now, clearly terrified out of his processor, his spark twisted in its chamber and a heavy weight settled over his shoulders.

"Primus," Jolt muttered. "He's just a kid."

The blue Autobot crouched down and extended a hand to the youngling, but this was the wrong move to make. The white mech reacted as though Jolt had pointed a gun in his face, scrambling away on all fours with an alarmed shriek until he collided into Ironhide's legs. The weapons specialist, who had yet to retract his cannons, grunted in surprise and watched as the strange bot all but fall over his own feet trying to put some distance between them.

"Ironhide, Bumblebee!" Ratchet snapped. "Put _away those weapons._"

While the pair grudgingly complied, Optimus stepped forward very slowly, carefully keeping his movements unthreatening as he approached the youngling watching him with wary optics. Just as he had done when meeting Sam and Mikaela for the first time, he knelt low on one knee to bring himself closer to optic level, but made no move to touch him. It was quite clear the young one would not react favorably if he so much as tried.

"Youngling," he addressed the mech who looked as though every hydraulic in his frame was primed to flee on a moment's notice. "What is your designation?"

They waited, but an answer was unforthcoming. Optimus continued, unfazed by his silence.

"I am Optimus Prime, and these are my Autobots."

Each of the mechs around them had come closer, and Optimus held up a hand to halt them as the youngling shifted uneasily and glanced from face to face.

"We mean you no harm, and I am deeply regretful for our hasty actions earlier. We—"

He paused, disturbed by the increasing tremors wracking the youngling's frame. The blue optics had dimmed considerably, flickering on and off as though the mech didn't have the strength to keep them online. Optimus heard his medic stepping up behind them, and this time he did not try to stop Ratchet from approaching.

"He's running on critical energy levels," the medic assessed. "That fight must have sapped the last of his reserves."

Just as he finished speaking, the youngling tipped over and sank into a crumpled pile, optics dark. The Autobots stood in silence for a moment, uncertain of what to do next and all of them wondering the same impossible questions.

Where had such a young spark come from, if the All Spark had been destroyed two years previous? And what could he possibly be doing out here, alone, where the Decepticons had abducted and murdered Sam?

"Slag," Ironhide cursed. "What do we do with him now?"

"We take him with us, of course. We can't leave the kid behind for the Decepticons to find."

"Who's to say he isn't already a Decepticon? You think it's just a grand coincidence he happens to be here, where those Pit-spawned 'Cons killed the boy?"

"Ironhide, that's enough paranoia on your part. This youngling is—"

"We will take him with us."

They all looked to Optimus, whose firm countenance invited no protests.

"We cannot leave him out here alone. If he is indeed a Decepticon, they have abandoned him for one reason or another. Ratchet, bring him with us. We will determine an appropriate course of action when he's refueled and can tell us more about himself."

The medic knelt down to pick up the young mech, and Optimus was struck by how _small_ the frame looked in contrast to Ratchet's broad arms. The white armor, thin and delicately plated, might not have been there at all; it seemed as though just one hard squeeze from the medic could shatter the meager protection shielding vulnerable systems and spark.

Bumblebee had been silent for almost the entire ordeal, but as they departed for the carrier craft in the distance, the yellow scout looked at the white frame in Ratchet's arms with narrowed optics, and passed them briskly, expression dark.

Optimus spared the rust-red patches of blood smeared across the hangar wall a final solemn glance as they left. Sam had paid the ultimate price for his involvement in their war, and for one mech at least, the wound of his death would be a long time in healing.


	5. Chapter IV: Creator

**By Tomorrow's Grace**

** Chapter IV: Creator**

* * *

_Iacon was falling._

_The main perimeter had failed under just a few volleys, the hastily erected defenses torn asunder like paper in the wind, and still the barrage kept coming. And the 'soldiers,' frightened civilians who had never fathomed living in wartime, alone picking up arms and fighting for their lives, shouldered their paltry weapons and walked into the battlefield of their home city._

_Optimus had been right. This was no battle—it was slaughter._

_The All Spark was frantic. Every breem, more and more of his creations, Iaconian defenders and militant invaders alike, were extinguished in agony. He was helpless to do anything but watch. The All Spark had no body to protect his young ones with, nor any voice to scream for them to stop._

"_Oh Primus, oh Primus, someone help me…"_

_Another of his creations was writhing in his own life fluids, begging for help that would not come. The All Spark remembered this one well, recalling how fondly he'd cradled the gentle young spark as he crafted his shell. He had trusted that his older creations would take care of this one well, but they had punched a hole through his chest instead and thrown him into a ditch to fade away in pain._

"_Help me, help me. Please, please someone come for me. I didn't ask for this, I don't want to die…"_

_With great difficulty, the All Spark pushed down the bitterness welling up inside him and wrapped his consciousness around that of the dying mech's. The struggles slackened, and comforted by the presence of his creator, the mech sobbed in relief._

'_Thank you, thank you.'_

_There was little the All Spark could do for him but to ease his passing. This one did not deserve such an end, yet all around them the gross injustice of it all was being repeated again and again, perpetuated in the screams and rumbling booms of cannon fire._

_The ailing spark flared once, twice, clinging to this existence despite its cruelty. It was painful to see how dearly it wished to live, but the All Spark whispered to it kindly, promising another chance someday in a better time. After a moment, it turned and melted into the warm embrace of its creator, and this time it shuddered in relief before fading into darkness._

* * *

Whereas the journey to Sam's location had been spent in tense silence, the mood on the ride back to Diego Garcia was less easy to define.

Each of them had their questions about the youngling resting in stasis between Ratchet and Ironhide. Some of them were subtle about it (Ironhide cast wary but discrete glances in his direction, rubbing his forearms agitatedly as though ready to whip out his cannons at a moment's notice should the strange mech spring to life) and others less so ("Twins, if you try to lift his mask one more time, my hand might just _slip_ during your next tune-up," Ratchet bit out, to little effect), yet beneath it all there lay an unspoken but unanimous undercurrent of fresh grief.

From his seat in the far end of the aircraft, Bumblebee paid none of them any attention. The little tarp-wrapped bundle was still cradled in his hands, but the scoutbot would neither unwrap it nor let any other mech close to it.

'_What happened to Sam is not something you can blame yourself for.'_

Optimus had told him this, knowing that Bumblebee would not believe him now, but hoping he might come to accept it someday in the future. After so many vorns at war, loss was no new thing to Optimus, nor to any of his Autobots, but that did not negate the pain they still felt after losing one of their own.

Bumblebee was young—by Cybertronian standards he had barely entered adulthood—but he was by no means naïve.

Loving a human was often equal parts joy and sadness, though for the humans' sake, Bumblebee had only let them see the joy. He'd been there when Mikaela had found her first grey hair, and while the girl had mock pouted and laughed off Sam's snide comments, Bumblebee had felt his spark freeze for an instant. When Sam picked up Mojo one summer afternoon, commenting in a casual sort of way that the little dog seemed to be getting slower with age, Bumblebee had wondered when the day would come that he thought the same of Sam.

The span of a human lifetime was almost negligible to the Cybertronians, who measured their history in eons and millennia, but Bumblebee had made peace with this. Sam and Mikaela were young still, and if all went well, Bumblebee would have them for another fifty, sixty years.

But he had not gotten even that.

The bundle in his arms had grown stiff and rigid as a wooden plank, but Bumblebee had no desire to look and find out why. Part of him wanted to uncover Sam's face—look at his closed eyes and pretend just for a moment that he was merely sleeping. But Sam's face had been mutilated too, those soft brown eyes Bumblebee loved gouged out and made a mockery of.

Had Sam wondered, in his last moments, why his guardian had failed to save him? Had he prayed for Bumblebee to come for him, waiting, as his lifeblood drained from his failing body, on futile trust and naïve faith? Had he regretted ever meeting Bumblebee and the Autobots in the first place, wishing that he had never been caught up in their endless war?

Bumblebee glanced over at the unconscious white mech lying next to Ratchet, and his spark flared with fresh anger. The Decepticons had wronged him before. They had demolished the youth sectors when Bumblebee was nothing more than a small sparkling, made him a war orphan, and time and time again, had taken the lives of mechs he had called friends.

But this—the sparkless slaying of his little human family, who by all rights should have had no part in their conflict—was a crime that would not be forgiven, one that would be paid back ten-fold.

Bumblebee raised the stiff, lifeless corpse to his chest, hoping perhaps that the warmth from his aching spark might chase away some of the icy-coldness that gripped Sam's body. _You deserved so much better, Sam. Destroying the ones who did this to you will not bring you back, but it is the best I can offer._

* * *

Upon arrival at Diego Garcia, the white youngling was brought to Ratchet's medbay and placed in a special containment chamber, isolated from the other mechs occupying the repair berths. Whatever his circumstances, no one was willing to risk the safety of the recovering Arcee and her sisters, who had been mostly repaired since Egypt but were still resting in forced stasis under Ratchet's orders.

But those in the medbay were the lucky ones, for they had at least escaped peril with their sparks intact. It was difficult not to think of the ones he hadn't been able to save, like Jazz, whose body he had spent months painstakingly repairing before laying to rest in the deepest level of the base.

As Ratchet ran passive scans on the strange white mech lying before him, Optimus stood to the side waiting patiently for the medic's prognosis. Ratchet said nothing for a long time, working quietly and quickly with the confident ease that marked him as a first class medic. When at last he spoke, his voice betrayed the slightest hint of bewilderment.

"The preliminary scans would suggest he is in perfect working order, but he needs energon."

"Energon?" Optimus's surprise was audible, and Ratchet could not blame him.

Energon was the fuel that every mech needed in the very early stages of their life, but the dependency was almost always shed by early younglinghood, and certainly by the time a mech received his adult upgrades. That this youngling still needed it would suggest he had only been activated very recently, and given the destruction of the All Spark, it was difficult to imagine this to be possible at all.

"Yes. A simple transfusion from one of us may do for now, but if we are to keep him functioning, we will need a long term supply of energon."

That would almost certainly be problematic. Though energon could be converted from solar energy, as the Fallen had attempted to do with this planet's sun, the Autobots had neither the resources nor the expertise to build such a machine, not even on a small scale.

"We don't have the means to getting energon."

"I am aware of the problem, Optimus. I fear that without the reestablishment of NEST to act as a channel to the human government and the timely arrival of Perceptor or Wheeljack, this youngling will be trapped in stasis for an indefinite period, or simply deactivate."

Optimus frowned at that. "That is unacceptable. The All Spark is gone, and yet this young one exists. If we can learn how he came to be…if there is a way to spark without the cube, then perhaps not all hope is lost for our race."

The open incredulity on Ratchet's face was reflected in his tone. "You're speaking of miracles, Optimus."

"If this is a miracle, we must not squander it." Optimus held out his arm, letting the armor of his forelimb shift and fold on itself until it exposed the inner workings. "Do the transfusion. Bring him online, Ratchet."

* * *

Sam stood at the edge of a high open balcony, and spread out before him was the golden city that haunted his memories.

There was nothing on Earth that resembled the magnificent metal spires arching up against a bronze sky, gracefully folding and uncurling their leaves like giant flowers towards the sun. Vehicles zipped by both below and above his head, navigating the precarious walkways with practiced ease, and there were mechs scaling the dizzying heights of the spires like insects on a tree. Everything as far as the eye could see was utterly alien, and yet it all struck a chord of poignant familiarity inside him.

Looking down at his own hands, Sam was only a little surprised to find that they were crafted from black metal, with intricate joints and tiny moving parts peaking between the seams. The rest of his arms, and as far he could see, his entire body, was plated with white armor that gleamed in the soft amber light. Though Sam was not vain by nature, even he could appreciate the pristine flawlessness of his new body.

"So," he said, half whispering to himself. "This is me now."

_**Yes.**_

Sam turned and found himself looking up at a strange mech. He bore no insignia, nor resemblance to any mech Sam had seen before, but his voice, which was deep and resonant with an undercurrent of ancient strength, was instantly recognizable.

Though the stranger was probably twice his height, Sam had no fear of him.

"Hi."

The mech didn't exactly smile, but there was a definite warmth in his golden optics as he knelt down on one knee as though to see Sam better. _**Hello, little spark.**_

Sam peered up at him curiously. The other's features were as alien as the city—he had no discernable mouth and two broad, sculpted plates where his nose should be—but his expression was gentle. "What's your name?"

The mech made a soft rumbling sound, and it took Sam several moments before he realized it sounded almost like _laughter_.

_**Designations are only a superficial means of identification. You and I have no need for them.**_ At Sam's bewildered look, the mech smiled in that strange way of his again, with no mouth but kind optics. _**But if you must, you may call me Creator.**_

It was a strange name, but then, so were all Cybertronian names.

Sam looked back out at the golden city, feeling his spark pulse just a little bit faster at the dizzying heights and endless horizon. Creator moved silently, with surprising grace for a being so large, and sat down beside Sam with his long legs dangling over the ledge.

_**This city was always your most favored**_, Creator rumbled gently. _**I suppose that is why you choose it even now as the focal point of our meeting.**_

"I don't know what you mean," Sam protested.

_**I suppose you wouldn't. Your memories are with me, after all. Your mind may not remember, but your spark certainly does.**_

Sam looked up at his companion, confused and a little worried. Had he forgotten something? He couldn't remember, but it must have been terribly important. At his expression, Creator only laughed and ran a palm down his helm.

_**Don't worry. I'll keep them safe until you've finished what you set out to do.**_ The golden optics smiled again, and Creator stroked Sam's face thoughtfully for a moment. _**You look just as I had imagined you would, although…**_ He hooked a finger under a plate near Sam's chin and gently lifted it upwards. Automatically, the mask shielding Sam's face split along the seams, coming apart and folding in on itself with soft clicks of metal on metal. _**I did not design you with a mask. Was that your own addition, my Creation?**_

Sam reached a hand up to feel his face, running the tips of his fingers over the intricate contours of the metallic features. "I don't know."

_**It's alright. But a mask cannot be worn for too long, lest you forget it is there and it becomes your face.**_

Sam nodded wordlessly, but his attention soon turned again to the cityscape before him.

The sky was growing darker, the fading light casting a deep amber glow on the city's slowly rotating spires. The city's sounds—the click-clacks of moving spires and whizz of vehicles zipping by—were as faint as though heard through a wall of cotton. It was as though someone was pulling the shades on Sam's vision and muffling his ears.

He looked back to Creator as though to ask him what was happening, and the noble face regarded him with a solemn but kind expression.

_**It is time for you to return now. Your Autobots are very anxious to meet you.**_

A thin shudder rippled down Sam's back, and he recoiled under the echoes of pain and screams and maddening sorrow rising to the fore of his mind. The last thing he wanted was to return to _out there_. Out there were things that wanted to hurt him, things that already had hurt him, and the promise of more pain to come. He wanted to stay here, to watch this living, breathing city under the quiet companionship of Creator.

Creator must have noticed his reluctance, for he laid a hand on Sam's back as though to still the tremors. _**You must go back. There is still much you have to do.**_

Sam wanted to disagree, but the golden city was fading right before his eyes, and he realized that the choice to stay was no longer in his own hands. Even the ground under his feet felt less firm and somehow insubstantial, as though it would soon drop out from beneath him. He turned, half afraid that Creator would disappear as well, and snatched his hand as though doing so was enough to keep him there.

"Why? I don't understand!"

Gently but firmly, Creator lifted Sam's metal hands. _**You may come back when you wish, but this is only a sanctuary, not an escape or a replacement for where you are truly needed.**_

The reassurance allayed only a little of Sam's fear, but he could sense an urgency elsewhere, a tugging sensation hooked around his entire being that threatened to pull him away from Creator despite his denial. "You'll be here?" he prompted urgently.

Creator dipped his head, just as the last of the light left the city and shrouded Sam's vision with darkness. __

_**I'll be here.**_


	6. Chapter V: Youngling

**By Tomorrow's Grace**

**Chapter V: Youngling**

* * *

The youngling came into consciousness not by inches, but in a startling eruption of movement that had both mechs hovering above him jerking back reflexively. Ratchet's monitor leads snapped free, and the tray of equipment nearby was overturned by a flailing white tail and was sent scattering to the floor.

"Hold him down!" Ratchet bellowed, and Optimus quickly reached for the youngling's limbs. The size difference between them made it an easy task to pin down the panicked mech's arms and legs, but he was surprised nonetheless by the sheer desperate strength the mech was capable of.

The energon feed between Optimus and the white mech had broken free in the commotion, spraying all three mechs with flecks of pink fluid, and the first thing Ratchet did was seal it as well as he could.

"Easy, youngling," Optimus's low rumbling voice attempted to soothe. "You're going to hurt yourself—"

The mech beneath him continued to struggle for a while, making pathetic, desperate noises as he did so. Optimus's spark sank at the look of terror in the blue optics, the only expressive feature he could see of the youngling behind his smooth mask.

Eventually, he began to tire, body trembling from exertion until Optimus finally felt safe enough to loosen his hold a little. "That's right," he said gently. "No one here wants to hurt you. Take it easy."

The frightened optics locked onto Optimus, widening marginally, and that was all the warning he had before the Autobot commander suddenly found himself with a youngling clinging to his torso. The white mech latched his arms around Optimus's midsection as far as they would reach, body pressed so close that Optimus almost imagined he could feel the fluttering spark hidden beneath his armor. It was such a complete turnaround from their previous situation that Optimus was momentarily stunned.

"…Creator…" the youngling mumbled, in a voice almost too low to be heard.

Ratchet and Optimus exchanged glances, and Optimus opened a private comm line with his medic. _Ratchet, what…?_

_I don't know, but I suggest you do what you can to keep him calm_, Ratchet returned.

Optimus nodded. He laid a hand on the youngling's back and patted him carefully. Cybertronians were not, by nature, a very tactile species, at least compared to humans, but younglings were a different story. Even before the war, Optimus had rarely had the chance to interact with them, despite being one of the mechs closest to the All Spark. But now, faced with the first youngling he'd seen in countless vorns, he found himself reacting to his distress almost instinctively.

The moment didn't last. After a while, the youngling froze, a look of stunned confusion settling in his optics as he stared at Optimus. He let go and began to back away. "…You're not Creator."

Optimus and Ratchet hid their surprise. Just who had Optimus been mistaken for? "I'm not your creator," the Autobot Commander admitted, tactfully allowing the strange mech to retreat to the other side of the berth. "But I do want to help you. What is your designation?"

The youngling just continued to stare. Designation? He ran a search for the answer to that, but his processor turned up none. He knew he had one, could almost hear it in his head and feel it on the tip of his tongue, but it danced just out of reach.

And then, realizing that his audience was still awaiting an answer, he settled for the best he could give.

"I can't remember."

While Ratchet gave him an odd look at that, Optimus only nodded patiently. "Let us know when you do, then."

* * *

To say Ratchet was dumbfounded when it came to the newest arrival at the base was something of an understatement. As they'd waited for the energon transfusion to reactivate the white mech, he'd conveyed to Optimus what his scans had revealed.

The mech was indeed a new spark—but Ratchet was stunned by _how_ new. His time of activation was dated to less than two hours before the Autobots had arrived to find Sam's body. Ratchet had searched for signs that this log had been tampered with—not that he had ever heard of such a file being forged—and found none. But it had to have been falsified, because it simply didn't make sense otherwise. The All Spark had been destroyed two years ago, and the two pitiful fragments of it that had survived Mission City were gone now too. And for his activation time to coincide so closely to Sam's death was…baffling.

But his other observations had led him to conclude that the youngling was unlikely to be of any threat to Ratchet and his comrades. He had no weapons to speak of, only the most preliminary firewalls, and no internal communications systems whatsoever. If Ratchet had to draw a comparison, he would have likened it to a sparkling freshly built and sparked, back when the All Spark had still given new sparks.

In fact, he seemed so new that he still had trouble coordinating himself. Ratchet watched as he left the examination platform and attempted to get around on his own. The clumsy, awkward gait was akin to that of any young creature still trying to learn control over its own limbs.

But despite whatever misgivings he had, one undeniable fact remained. This mech was the first youngling since the attack on the Youth Sectors centivorns ago, and that was precious beyond reckoning. It was a sad irony that this should happen on the same day they had lost Sam. Ratchet was of the belief that true coincidences of this magnitude were few and far in between, but he could not fathom what, if any, relationship existed between these two events. He supposed only time would tell.

"Ratchet is our medic," Optimus was saying, kneeling on the ground in front of the white mech. "He is a fine officer and will help you if you feel injured or ill. You can trust him."

Trust, Ratchet thought, would take time. The youngling had not even lifted his mask yet. And who could blame him, with the spectacularly violent introduction he'd had to the Autobots?

But the youngling surprised him again. "…okay," he said in a small voice, before crouching onto all fours and beginning to move around the enclosed room this way. His legs were longer than his arms, folding like a jackrabbit's on either side of his body, and a strong tail trailed out behind him, knocking into tables and walls awkwardly as he made his way around.

Ratchet wondered who had made his frame. Though the youngling was still as uncoordinated and clumsy as a fledgling bird, his body, with its long, digitigraded legs and sturdy tail, was clearly built for agility and speed. But from the almost-invisible transformation seams Ratchet could see, he could tell these were only alternate modifications, much like Sideswipe's pede-wheels and Bumblebee's battle mask: useful when needed but otherwise usually kept retracted.

It was all in all a very specialized form, and the implications were both disheartening and disturbing. Back before the war, new sparks were never onlined with such specialized modifications. The general philosophy had been that younglings should have the freedom to choose their own upgrades as they grew and came to terms with their identities and desired functions.

There had been no new sparks created during the war—at least, not until now. That this youngling had been sparked into a body clearly built to _run_, and run fast, meant that his design had been influenced by the conflicts he was sure to encounter almost from the moment he was activated.

Ratchet watched as the youngling pulled himself up, tail held high for balance, and attempted a few wobbly steps.

Sparked for war…

Ratchet's shoulders slumped ever so slightly.

* * *

The youngling wasn't sure why the two larger mechs in the room were watching him with such intensity, but it set him on edge.

His awakening had been chaotic and frantic. He hadn't wanted to leave the haven in his mind or Creator, and he had been fearfully certain that _outside_ there were monsters hiding, waiting to break his bones, peel his skin back, and make him bleed.

And then he'd seen a mech who, in his hazy, panic-ridden mind, had borne a striking resemblance to Creator, and for a moment, he'd thought that perhaps Creator had followed him out of his head to keep him safe outside.

But he'd been mistaken. The mech wasn't Creator, even if he spoke with a similar deep, comforting voice and soothed him gently. The youngling had been disappointed, but the names the two bigger mechs gave him quieted some of the anxiety inside him. _Ratchet_ and _Optimus_ felt safe enough, and something in the back of the youngling's mind had stirred very quietly in recollection as Optimus helped him off the platform and set him on his feet.

As he noticed the medic watching him carefully from the corner of his optics, he wondered if Doc Hatchet was going to let him out of the repair bay any time soon.

The youngling paused. Where had _that_ nickname come from?

Over his head, the two big mechs were talking about him in urgent tones, as if he was not there or could not understand. This annoyed the youngling greatly, but he chose not to protest in favor of listening to what they had to say.

"—in the best interest of everyone involved if we keep the others, especially Bumblebee, from meeting him for a few days at least," Ratchet was saying. "We don't want to overwhelm him."

Optimus seemed to agree. "We'll have to keep a close optic on Bumblebee." He sighed deeply. "He was very close to the boy. I fear his grief may manifest in…undesirable ways."

That piqued the youngling's interest. Mention of this new mech's name stirred a sense of familiar nostalgia in him, and an image of vibrant yellow flashed briefly before his mind's eye. "Bumblebee?" he piped up. Two pairs of optics turned his way, and he shrank back, suddenly wishing he hadn't drawn attention to himself.

"Yes," said Optimus. "He is one of the mechs here." And then, recalling the very violent and traumatizing manner by which Bumblebee had introduced himself to the youngling a few hours ago, he hid a grimace.

"You'll meet him in due time, along with the others," Ratchet offered.

"Oh." The youngling sat down with his tail curled around him, legs folded close to his body and hands resting on the floor. He looked around listlessly, and Optimus felt a brief pang of pity for him. He must feel terribly lost, to have just come online to the company of mechs he didn't know and in the middle of a conflict he knew nothing of.

The youngling's next words confirmed this.

"What's going to happen to me?" he asked in a small voice. The question spoke volumes of just how vulnerable he felt.

"You will be taken care of here. And you may stay with us for as long as you wish." Optimus knelt to put himself on closer grounds with the youngling, who looked up at him uncertainly. "Our race has not been blessed with new sparks in more eons than I can count. You are more precious than you realize."

The youngling didn't quite know what to say to that.

"Optimus has much to do today," Ratchet said. "And I will be working in this med bay for most of the morning. But when I am finished, perhaps you would like a tour around the base? We can see to setting up some private quarters for you, if you wish."

That earned him a shy smile from the youngling. "I'd like that."

* * *

Optimus left not long after, and Ratchet watched him go, noting the slight heaviness in his steps, imperceptible to all but those closest to the Autobot commander. Ratchet cycled his intakes deeply, and the cool rush of air over his systems relieved some of the tension that had been building over the last few stressful days.

He didn't envy Optimus, not in the slightest. Sam's death weighed heavily on all of them, but Optimus was the one who would have to deal with the human government, explain to them why four of their own had been taken from their homes and executed.

The fallout would not be pleasant, Ratchet knew. It was one thing when human soldiers died fighting alongside the Autobots, but the deaths of civilians—two of them still children in their country's eyes—would invoke anger and fear.

The exposure fiasco from several months ago in which the Fallen had broadcast Sam's face across the world had been written off as an elaborate hoax. Optimus had not approved, but the human governments had been in unanimous consensus that the public was not yet ready for the truth. Ratchet could guess that Sam's death, as well as the deaths of his procreators and mate, would similarly be covered up as well.

Ratchet spared a downward glance at the white mech, who returned his stare with wide blue optics behind the still-drawn mask. And now there was an additional complication as well.

How were they going to explain the presence of the youngling?

A soft chirrup was uttered, and the youngling was glancing to the side and down as though looking for something with which to occupy his attention. Ratchet started towards the door, and the youngling turned around so fast that his tail smacked loudly against the wall. The medic made a sound of amusement; it had been a very long time indeed since he'd been in the presence of an awkward new spark.

"You can follow me once you've learned how to walk," the medic told him. "Get familiar with your motor relays first. I'll be working just outside—" he pointed beyond the wall-to-wall window at the rest of the med bay. "You can watch me and work on walking."

"…okay."

Satisfied, Ratchet propped open the door and walked out. To his amusement, the youngling tracked him with his optics from the other side of the window the entire way.

Arcee was awake—the other two sisters of her unit were powered down, optics dark in stasis.

"New patient, Ratchet?" she asked cheekily, looking behind the medic at the youngling staring at them through the glass. The white mech quickly pretended to have been watching something else.

The medic snorted, bending down to collect the equipment he needed. "I see you're feeling better."

"I wasn't the one that got her head almost blown off."

"No, but holding Flareup's spark here strained both you and Chromia," Ratchet said severely. One of his fingers split open to reveal tiny pincer-like tools, and he began picking at Flareup's open chassis. Arcee watched on in interest. "Why aren't you in stasis?"

"I've been in stasis for _months_. Your med bay's rather boring," the pink femme stated blithely. And then, her tone more serious, she lowered her voice and asked, "So, did you find Bumblebee's human boy?"

Ratchet paused in his work. He didn't turn around or give an answer, and Arcee didn't need one to discern what had happened. The atmosphere turned somber.

"Oh." Although Arcee hadn't known Sam personally like some of the other Autobots had, she'd respected him for what he'd done for them. "Do you think Bumblebee will be alright?"

Ratchet recalled Bumblebee's mournful wails upon seeing Sam's body. _No_, he thought. _Not for a long while. _That was what he wanted to say. But instead, he only answered, "Bumblebee was very attached to Sam."

Inside the isolation room, the youngling was tottering about—mostly on two legs but dropping onto all fours occasionally when his precarious balance gave out. Ratchet wondered when he would feel comfortable enough to retract his mods and mask.

"Who's the new bot?" The tactful change of subject was not lost upon Ratchet. "Did I miss new arrivals while I was out?"

"No…we found him alone while we were out earlier."

That earned him a curious look from Arcee, but when he did not offer an explanation, she went on. "What's his designation?"

"We don't know." Sensing impending questions he was not ready to answer yet, Ratchet sighed and returned to his work. "We don't know much about him yet, only that he's not a danger to us."

Arcee peered at the white mech curiously, and Ratchet sensed there were many questions she wanted to ask. He could hardly blame her—the youngling's circumstances were baffling to say the least.

But thankfully, Arcee left it at that.

It took Ratchet another hour and a half to repair Flareup's tertiary sensory net to his satisfaction, and in that time, he and Arcee conversed on various matters around the base—on Sideswipe's most recent run-in with human local law enforcement, the base's renovations, and the political red tape surrounding the reestablishment of NEST.

On this last matter, an unlikely ally had appeared in the form of one Reginald Simmons, who had, following the events of Egypt, found himself filling the shoes of a recently dismissed Galloway.

Ratchet hadn't been overly fond of Simmons when they'd first met, but he had to admit, the man's actions in Egypt had redeemed him in some ways. And as annoying as Simmons could be, at least he didn't inspire twitchy trigger fingers in both Autobots and his fellow humans as Galloway had.

"Oh, Ratchet. Here he comes!" Arcee's whisper drew the medic out of his musings, and Ratchet turned around to see that the white youngling had finally left the isolation room and was now walking uncertainly towards them.

His motor control was still a little shaky, Ratchet could see, but the progress was profound considering he'd only been online for less than a day.

"You learned fast," he remarked.

The youngling shrugged, a casual gesture that seemed rather odd for a new spark of his age to have. "It's just walking," he muttered.

Arcee was lost. "Ratchet repaired your motor relays?"

The youngling peered up at her. "I wasn't damaged."

An impossible suspicion dawned upon Arcee and her optics brightened suddenly in surprise, and Ratchet felt an internal comm line being opened. _Ratchet, is he—_

_A new spark?_ The medic groused. _How astute of you_.

Arcee ignored his sarcasm. _Where did you find a youngling?_

The youngling, ignorant of the conversation taking place over his head, idly picked up one of Ratchet's instruments to inspect. The medic promptly plucked it out of his hand and set it back down.

_We don't know where he came from. We're hoping to get him settled in first before grilling him with questions._

The femme took the hint and wisely did not press the matter.

"Hello," she said kindly, and her tone had the youngling looking at her oddly. "I'm Arcee. Welcome to the Autobots."

"Thanks." The white mech didn't offer his designation in turn, but then, perhaps he hadn't chosen one yet. "Nice to meet you, Arcee."

"Oooh, he's _polite_ too," the femme said approvingly. "I like this one, Ratchet." The medic snorted. "My sisters will like you too. This is Chromia—" She patted the frame beside her, nearly identical in all respects but for its color, which was a rich, deep blue. "—and Flareup." She gestured to the purple frame Ratchet had been working on. "They'll be waking up in the next day or two and you can meet them then."

The youngling straightened up on his long legs to look at Flareup, or rather, at the open gap in her chassis Ratchet had been working on. Most of the damage had been repaired already, a testament to Ratchet's skills as a medic. Flareup's frame had been near unrecognizable when they'd gathered her up from the battlefield in Egypt, the only thing tethering her spark to this world being her sisters.

"Is she okay?"

"She will be," Ratchet said, patting the child's head. The youngling ducked away from his touch like a skittish fawn, and Ratchet obligingly did not try again. "I'm going to let Flareup's self repair integrate the new repairs, and then I'll be back later. Arcee, if you feel well enough, you have clearance to leave the med bay, but if you strain yourself, I _will_ know about it and you _will_ be sorry."

"Got it, doc Hatchet," the pink femme said with a flippant tone to her voice. She got up, and grinned at the youngling who watched curiously as she balanced effortlessly on her single wheel. "I'll see you around, new spark."

When Arcee was gone, the youngling stood there thinking about something she had said. "Doc Hatchet?" he muttered, and though this was mostly to himself, Ratchet heard and grimaced.

"You don't need to remember that, youngling. It's just something that Sam—"

The youngling waited to hear more, but Ratchet had cut himself off and was now busying himself cleaning up his work area. It took him just a few minutes, and then he was heading towards the same direction Arcee had left. He glanced over his shoulder.

"Coming, youngling? The base is pretty large, lots of things to see."

Previous conversation quickly forgotten, the youngling perked up. "Yeah yeah yeah!"

* * *

_No, this fic is not abandoned. :)_

_I accidentally uploaded this chapter on 'Today, Tomorrow, Forever.' Sorry to raise anyone's hopes who got an alert for that story.  
_


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